Chapter Text
The melodious strains of the elf-choir upon the corner—the indefatigable little singers who braved even the cruelest winter winds—floated into the modest apothecary like a strand of gold thread weaving itself through warm tapestry. Their bright voices mingled with the scent of rosemary draughts and menthol tonics, while the tiny bell above the shop door issued its habitual jingle, announcing yet another brave soul who had elected to defy December’s biting cold.
“James,” wheezed Fleamont Potter, who was stooped over a trembling set of enchanted scales that wobbled most disagreeably as they attempted to weigh a handful of holly leaves. Meanwhile, his son could be found in the back room, directing several stubborn crates of surplus inventory toward the higher shelves with his wand. “Your mother is quite overwhelmed at the front. Go, my boy—lend her a hand.”
James pocketed his wand with dutiful promptness. “Right away, Father.”
The front of Mia and Monty’s Apothecary was, as was customary in the winter season, a study in cheerful pandemonium. December—being the grand conspirator that it was—delighted in afflicting witches and wizards with every manner of cough, chill, fever, and malady it could muster. Thus, the shop resembled a storm-tossed vessel upon which clammy-handed patrons clung desperately, beseeching remedies of pepper-up, cold-curing cordial, or (in more dramatic cases) a restorative guaranteed to prevent one’s nose from transfiguring entirely into an icicle.
James had scarcely stepped beyond the threshold of the storeroom when a young woman planted herself decidedly in his path.
“Excuse me,” she said with remarkable politeness, lifting a small parchment. “I wondered if—”
“Terribly busy,” James interjected, slipping around her. “You’ll have to wait your turn.”
“You misunderstand—”
“And I am afraid,” he continued briskly, “that we do not permit solicitors inside the shop. If you wish to distribute pamphlets or persuade the public of anything, the main street is your arena.”
The woman drew herself up, clearly affronted, but James had already navigated his way to the counter, where Euphemia Potter was seeing off a red-nosed customer.
“Oh, splendid timing, James,” his mother said, quite out of breath. “Do tend to Mrs. Thadwell, will you? I must prepare Bathilda’s order at once.”
With that, she disappeared toward the storeroom, leaving James to confront Mrs. Thadwell, who was enveloped in shawls enough for three witches.
“Yes, ma’am,” he inquired courteously. “What seems to ail you today?”
“I have an atrocious headache,” Mrs. Thadwell murmured, touching her brow with tragic delicacy. “I require something potent.”
“Of course, let me—”
“You know,” declared a firm voice behind him, “if she has a headache, you ought to give her the ginger extract. Pepper-up does not cure every ill, you understand.”
James twisted sharply, only to find himself once more confronted with the young woman of the parchment—she of the apparently indomitable spirit.
“Well,” he said through an exceedingly tight smile, “my family invented pepper-up, fortunately for the wizarding world. I believe I know when to prescribe it.”
“It would nonetheless work better with the ginger extract,” she insisted, with the air of someone unimpressed by Potters or their inventions.
“Oh? Are you employed here?” he asked, his patience slipping. “Might you be an accredited apothecary?”
“Not as yet.” She stepped forward and placed the parchment upon the counter. To James’s chagrin, he recognized it at once—his own enchanted Help Wanted notice. “I am here to apply for the temporary shop assistant position. Lily Evans,” she added, with a prim nod. “Graduate of Saint Frideswide’s Magical Healing Academy.”
She swept a hand toward the bustling shop. “And it is abundantly clear you require assistance.”
James blinked as though she had struck him with a peppermint humbug.
“Are you always this charming?” he asked.
“Only when encountering arrogance and stubbornness,” she replied with unimpeachable calm.
“Fascinating approach,” James muttered, “insulting the owners’ son while applying for employment.”
Lily flushed—but only faintly—before lifting her chin another inch. “Very well. If you prefer to continue offering inadequate care to the citizens of Diagon Alley, that is entirely your affair.”
Having declared this with admirable dignity, she turned smartly on her heel and swept out of the shop. The doorbell gave a delicate ring, as if curtsying after her wake.
James stood frozen, staring first at the door, then at the ginger extract in his hand, and finally at the Help Wanted notice glimmering reproachfully on the counter. He had charmed dozens of those notices to flutter about the Alley like well-meaning moths—and she was the only person who had answered.
He uttered a quiet, heartfelt expletive under his breath.
“Wait!” he called, bursting out into the brisk winter air as though propelled. “Miss Evans—do wait!”
She paused halfway down the cobbled street. Against the snowy backdrop, her red hair blazed like a signal fire beneath her green cloak.
James skidded to a halt beside her, breathless and slightly mortified. “You have the position!”
Lily’s irritation melted instantly, replaced by a bright, triumphant smile worthy of a Christmas morning. “Excellent. I shall begin tomorrow.”
She extended her hand with professional poise. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mr. Potter.”
And James—who was suddenly unsure whether he had made a terrible mistake, or the most interesting decision of his young life—shook it.